


Diversions

by Eadgyth



Series: Of Wardens, Champions, and Inquisitors [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: Anders Loves Cats, Anger, Blood and Gore, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Worry, not sure what to tag cause this is all random bits and pieces, some AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-03-09 16:21:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 15,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3256478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eadgyth/pseuds/Eadgyth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of odds and ends that occurred to me during my playthroughs of Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening, Dragon Age II, and Dragon Age: Inquisition. Also, some drabbles I wrote in response to https://writersofthedas.tumblr.com/ Tumblr prompts. Chapters are tagged with relevant character and/or POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cousland Warden: A Hazy Memory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is built off the idea that Isolde did not have the leverage to get Eamon to send Alistair off to the Chantry until she was married to Eamon and has either had or is pregnant with Connor. It is also formulated off the idea that Connor is somewhere between 10 -12 around the fifth Blight in 9:30.

Her earliest memory is of a castle. Not her family’s castle in Highever, but just as old. She has a vague sense that this castle was in better repair, not being subjected to the harsh storms and salt driven winds off the Waking Seas. There was water nearby, at least there was according to the distinct fuzziness of a dim recollection. But there is not much detail about the place that she can recall if pressed, save that it was grand. It may have been built on a cliff, but cliffs being a defensible location, are often the locations of castles in Felerdan, so she is not entirely sure where castle stands today.

She knows that her family was there for a some kind of social gala involving an Arl, but the precise reason is hidden under the mire of what a precocious six-year old finds entertaining. It certainly wasn’t flouncing around in dresses to the cooing of patronizing adults as many of the other young girls seemed to be engaged. Besides, her brother Fergus being a good five years her senior, was better at that anyway. Not the flouncing of course, but he did enjoy soaking up praise. 

This particular memory, if she thinks about it, involved being angry with her brother and possibly the eldest Howe boy. They either hadn’t let her in on whatever mischief they were up to, or Howes' eldest son had teased her again about not being a real girl, as if she wanted to be the shy, timid thing that the Howe girl was and Fergus had failed to help her prove her worth. Whatever the reason for her anger, she found herself wandering the halls of the castle and ducking around corners that most of the Arl’s guests had never seen. 

She could hear barking off in the distance, which made her apple round cheeks break into deep dimples as a smile spread from ear to ear. Her father had promised her a mabari hound when she was old enough to care for one and she never let a chance to spend time with their family’s hound trainer slip by her. Smoothing out the wrinkles in the soft doe skin breeches, and setting right the fine cotton tunic under her dark suede jerkin, her mother had long given up on sending out to play in anything that looked remotely like a dress, she made herself as presentable as possible before sprinting down the corridor toward the excited barking. Her only thought was to hope that the Hound-Master of this castle was as kindly as Adain back home.

So intent was her focus on the sounds ahead of her, that she didn’t notice the boy until he stepped out into the center of the hall, blocking her path. She tried to stop herself, but only managed to slow down a bit before tumbling headlong into the lad whose attention was plastered firmly to the floor until the moment she collided with him. 

They landed in a heap on the smooth stone cobbles, warped into some horrible ball, all legs, arms, bony elbows, and skinned knees. 

“Hey, that hurt,” the boy snapped, rubbing his head as he attempted to sit up.

“Yeah, you too,” she pouted, rubbing her sore elbow as she decided to ignore how the boy shoved her legs off his belly. Her arm was clanging with pain that made her eyes water, but she refused to cry, especially in front of an unknown boy.

“Are you okay?” the boy was kneeling next to her now, his soft amber colored eyes full of concern. 

“I’m fine,” she said in a tone her mother had often told her was haughty and rude, but she knew with the certainty of a child that the boy next to her was at least two or more years older than her and she would rather be seen as haughty by such boys than weak. 

The boy’s face crumbled a bit as he stood up, “Oh...okay, well I’ll be going then.” 

Spring up after the boy, she caught up to his rather determined and brisk walk in the wrong direction, “Hey, wait up. Do you want to play with me?”

She almost slammed into him again when he stopped short. He turned and looked at her, eyes round and wide, full of something that her adult mind would later label as shock and disbelief, “You...want to play...with me?”

Smiling, she rocked slightly on her heels and replied brightly, “Of course.” And then to make doubly sure he knew she was serious, she tapped his shoulder before sprinting back down the hall and calling, “Your it!”

The afternoon when by in a blur of games, ill gotten hunks of hard cheese and bread that she skillfully pinched from the larder while he nervously watched for the reportedly ill-tempered cook, and laughter. He showed her all the hidden corners and nooks of the castle. She taught him some of the games she played with the squires back in Highever.

It was a perfect afternoon that hazed around the edges into a fine memory. 

As she grew, she would often look for the boy when ever her father took them to Denerim, hoping to find him among the sons of Arls and banns of the Bannorn or attending the Landsmeet as a scion of a noble house. She never dared to ask about the boy, a ghost of memory that he has become, for fear of giving her parents meat to hang their frustrated marriage plans on, but she knows she’s looking for someone like the boy. Someone to take her as she is, underneath title, honor, duty, obligation, and her father’s unorthodox training. But as is the way of youth, she never bothered to get the boy’s name, and all she can recall amid the fog of remembrance are a pair of tawny hued and kind eyes.


	2. Duncan POV: A Warden's Impression

Duncan was relieved to find that Howe’s men had not found his camp. 

The handful of Wardens that he had brought north with him had been startled at his sudden reappearance and with the daughter of Teyrn Cousland in tow behind him no less. They all knew why they were here, who they were here for, but he didn’t think any of them thought that he would return so quickly. It took a moment for them to take in the blood that spattered his armor and that of the youngest Cousland. Once they did, however, the camp was quickly consumed with a flurry of activity as his men went to work erasing any trace of their camp.

Calling for parchment and ink, he settled on a rough stump by the fire. He needed to collect his thoughts, which were a swirling tumult after the events of the evening. There was no time for an in depth dispatch to send ahead of him to Ostagar. Every moment they lost made it that much more likely that a Arl Howe’s men might discover them.

He had expected a simple inquiry into the household of Teyrn Cousland, a show of interest in a respected knight or promising squire. It was a sham, true, but convincing a noble to allow any child to join the ranks of the Grey Wardens was often difficult. The daughter of a respected and powerful Teyrn was perhaps doubly so, but Duncan was determined. The fact that the lady’s reputation had managed to reach his ear all the way in Denerim merited an attempt at the very least.

It was still surprising to him even now, after more than twenty years a Warden, and nearly ten as Warden Commander of the Fereldan garrison, how there were just some potential recruits who he knew down to his very bones would survive the Joining. Teyrn Cousland’s daughter was one. He felt it the second he stepped into the great hall.

The girl, for she could not have been more than seventeen, perhaps even eighteen, stood with all the grace that befitted her station. Duncan wagered that was all a casual observer would note beyond her obvious beauty. A more discerning eye would have caught the how her stance would give her the advantage if a simple conversation were to turn ugly. More surprising to Duncan were the very carefully stitched false seams in the sleeves and the almost imperceptible bugle in the sash of her heavy plum velvet and brocade gown. And then wonders of wonders, there was the faintest tinge of green to her perfectly trimmed nails. The rumors that had come to him about her had clearly underestimated her, which did not surprise him. Teyrn Cousland could afford the best tutors and armsmen to train his children. The Teyrn’s only son Fergus by all accounts was an accomplished swordsman, if not the keen strategist and diplomat that his father was. The daughter, however, was in an entirely different category. 

_The bards of Orlais would be falling over themselves to snatch her up_ , Duncan thought grimly as he only half listened to the conversation around him. _I wonder what the Teryn is up to, training her in such a manner?_

If he was a harder man, Duncan might have conscripted her after the Teyrn’s obvious displeasure at suggesting that his daughter would make an excellent Grey Warden. It was within Duncan’s right to do so after all, and the Blight certainly merited such measures. The Teyrn, however, was a respected man with in the Landsmeet and the Wardens could ill afford to antagonise the nobles of Ferelden. It was hard enough operating out of Denerim these days with Teyrn Loghain constantly looking over his shoulder. The Teyrn of Gwaren was as suspicious and calculating as the day Duncan had meet him. In fact it had become increasingly apparent to Duncan that the Grey Wardens had only been allowed to remain in Ferelden after Maric’s disappearance because it was one of the few things King Cailan had insisted on. Upsetting the only other Teyrn in a country full of fractious lords could easily lead to the order being expelled again, even with a Blight on the horizon.

Duncan shook his head trying draw his thoughts back to the present. It did no good to spin out thoughts and frustrations about the quagmire that served as politics here. There was a Blight to deal with after all.

He could almost forgive Arl Howe’s treachery, as he suspected that this recruitment might have taken some finesse on his part if the Arl hadn’t turned out to be an opportunistic bastard.

Penning a hasty note, he put it in the hands of the one scout he had brought with him and sent the man off ahead of them to Ostagar. Looking back over his shoulder at his new recruit, he sighed and hoped the mere fortnight of travel would be enough time for her to work past her grief.

She was still standing in the same spot that he had left her, with her back to the fire and staring out into the darkened wood, her blood spattered suit of silverite heavy chainmail sparkling in the light. It was an odd choice of armor, given the long sword and dagger that she appeared to favor, but on closer inspection Duncan noticed the thinness of the plates and chain. He had not been surprised when he saw that she and Teyrna had made it to the castle larder, but now he found himself impressed that the girl had made it all that way in a suit of parade armor that was as protective as gossamer and just as fragile.

“My lady,” that he had been able to walk up behind her without her acknowledging his presence worried him. “We will need to leave soon. I suspect that Arl Howe’s men will soon be scouring the area for you and any other survivors that might have escaped.”

The newly orphaned lady continued to stare out into the night.

“My lady?!” Duncan reached out and touch the girl’s shouldered, hoping to break whatever spell of emotion that was holding her captive.

If he was a less seasoned veteran, he might have caught the full force of her fist in his chest. Instead he caught her hands and held them tight, staring into dim green eyes that were looking disconcertingly through him. He jerked her arms sharply as he barked as loudly as he dared, “My Lady Cousland.”

Eyelids fluttering as awareness crept back into her unlined face, her voice was quiet and strained, “Duncan?”

“Yes, your ladyship,” he scanned her face, found in it a hollowness he had not seen in another’s gaze in a good twenty years, and then had to keep his thoughts from skittering off down paths of memory he would rather forget.

She blinked slowly and long, still holding his gaze as her body seemed to cave in on itself a bit, “Marker’s breath, then that all happened didn’t it.”

“I am afraid so,” he said gentle as he let go of her hands. “We need to go. I am afraid that your grief will have to wait until we are well away from Highever, my lady.”

The girl seemed to shudder like a leaf for a moment, and straighten, rolling her shoulders back as she rubbed her gauntleted fingers over her pale brow. Her eyes were bright when she looked back at him, but there was a darkness in them, too, like a cold fire that had Duncan holding his breath.

“Don’t, please don’t call me that,” her voice was harsh, crackling with bit back tears. “I am a Grey Warden recruit now, am I not?”

Duncan felt the corners of his mouth pull into a small smile, “As you wish…”

“Aiofe. Please, just call me Aiofe,” there was a small shade of plaintive kreening to her voice, but mostly Duncan found himself both marveling at her strength as well as becoming concerned that it might be a false front. He pulled on his taint, reaching out towards her with senses that defined the Grey Wardens. Nothing about his estimation of her had changed and his enhanced perceptions told him nothing more, not that he had expected them to, she was not a darkspawn after all. Still, sometimes reaching out at recruit like this had served to sift through those he had been unsure of over the years, invariably saving their lives.

“I would suggest you stay out from underfoot right now, your...Aoife,” Duncan motioned to a spot over by the line of picketed horses. “My men will see to the preparations for our departure. We have a long journey ahead of us, which will be made that much harder considering we are short a few mounts.”

The girl nodded, the tangled lengths of her unbound hair falling forward over her shoulders. She moved off in the general direction that he had pointed, and stood motionless for a brief moment. It wasn’t a long pause, but it made Duncan hesitate. When she pulled a rough looking cloth from her belt pouch and began cleaning off her blades, Duncan let out the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. He made a mental note to speak to Alistair about the girl when they got to Ostagar. They were of a similar age and something about the way she had interacted with her father earlier had given Duncan the impression that the pair of them would get along. It might help her work through her grief if she had someone to confide in after all. Turning his attention back to his men, Duncan shook his head again, he could almost hear Riordan chiding him again over how he fussed over his recruits. He would wait then till after her Joining, there was no need to have the boy looking out for her until it was truly assured that she would be one of their rank. Until then he would do what he must.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name is pronounce EE-fa.


	3. Aoife Cousland: A Matter of Duty

Closing her eyes, Aoife let the salt sweet air tease the tangle the wind was making of her hair. She had climbed the steps of the old north tower hoping to get away from the din below. These days the castle seemed to be alive with the sound of mortar being chiseled and stones being set. It made her headache, throbbing in time with the rhythmic pounding. 

She knew that the repairs where necessary, being this close to the ocean, but her head did not take kindly to all the racket. Filling her lungs with another full brace of sharp sea air, she looked out over the castle and towards the distant sapphire glimmer of the Waking Sea.

The city of Highever was smaller than Denerim. It sprawled lazily along the coast as a cat might lay languidly in the sun, while Castle Cousland sat off to the west on a rocky escarpment like an abandoned toy. The crags and inlets along this stretch of coast had made it impossible for the city to grow around the castle, and their family would not abandon the old keep for a more modern estate with in the city walls. She supposed that the citizens of Highever likened the castle to a stately matron rather than a forgotten plaything. Still, she couldn’t help the irreverent thought.

Her parents had been putting subtle if firm pressure on her to settle down lately. A comment about how handsome Arl Howe’s youngest son was looking or how accomplished Bann Loren’s son was becoming with a great sword. Her father was even openly encouraging her to spend more time with Ser Gilmore. Half the women at her mother’s salon that afternoon had extolled her about the virtues of their various sons. Lady Landra had been particularly forward, though that might have been because she had had one too many glasses of Antivan red. 

It wasn’t that Aoife wasn’t interested in men. She was very much interested in them and enjoyed their company, but she had no interest in marriage. Or at least none of the men she knew inspired her in that direction. 

Ser Gilmore, Rory if she felt like being informal, was more an older brother to her than an actual love interest. The thought of even kissing him made her shudder with disgust, it was to close too the idea of kissing Fergus, which made her want to wretch. 

Thomas, Arl Howe’s son, was a borish drunkard whose only redeeming quality was that he had managed to catch his mother’s looks and therefore was considered a most handsome man. Aoife found herself shuddering as she remembered the last time the Howe’s had visited Highever. Thomas had decided to try his luck with her and had ended up on his back in the upper courtyard with a sizable bruise on his cheek, though she doubted he remembered how it got there, he had been drunk after all. If she married any member of the Arl’s family she would rather be plighted to the eldest, even if he was a condescending stick in the mud. Thankfully, he was being fostered off in the Free Marches, probably to secure some new trade venture schemed up by Arl Howe and Bann Esmerelle. 

Bann Loren’s eldest was sweet, a decent swordsman, though he was reportedly better with a bow, and he could hold an intelligent conversation. Dairren was also handsome and a rather good kisser by all accounts. Some even whispered that he was an excellent lover, but Aoife had not had the pleasure of exploring the validity of such a claim. Of the three, Dairren was the least obnoxious choice paraded before her, but she did not love him. 

If her father was determined to pass over her brother and make her the Teyrna after him, then she was equally determined to marry for love. It would give her one thing that was her own in a life that had been full of obligation.

Aoife let out a long sigh as she watched the gulls drift idly over the distant harbour. It was hard not to be jealous of the birds. Their only cares where towards their bellies and their offspring.

Shaking her head, Aoife tried to clear her head of its melancholy thoughts. She still had at least another two years before she absolutely had to make a decision about marriage. Afterall, she wasn’t even twenty yet.

“I thought I’d find you up here, pup,” her father’s voice cut through her thoughts like cold water.

Turning on her heel slowly, Aoife faced the Teyrn of Highever hoping her expression did not look overly panic and strained. She had just run out on her mother’s spring salon after all. “Did mother send you find me?”

Her father’s pale blue eyes sparkled as if reflecting the distant seas as he chuckled, “You know your mother too well, pup.”

Groaning, Aoife pushed herself off the parapet she had been leaning against and dusted the grainy bits of mortar and sand that clung to her pale lavender skirts, “Do a really have to go back, father?”

“Your mother was quite insistent. She did not go to all this trouble just to have you disappear after all.” 

Aoife looked askance at her father as she began carding her fingers through her wind blown hair. His eyes were shifting about in a way that made Aoife nervous. He only did that when he had something important he wanted to discuss, but was still trying to formulate the best way to broach the subject. She decided that it might be better for her to make the first move, “What is it father? You could have just as easily sent Oriana or Fergus after me and had them drag me back to mother’s parade of eligible men.”

The Teyrn chuckled, “Am I that obvious, pup?”

Smiling, Aoife walked over to her father, “Only to me, father. You’ve trained me too well not notice the subtle signs of indecision in you.”

“Ha,” Teyrn Cousland’s laugh boomed out over the castle, “Maker’s breath, pup, I suppose I will have to cut straight to the point then. You know I am going with the King to Orlais for the start of the summer season there?”

With a dismissive toss of her head, Aoife gave a most unladylike snort, “How could I not. It’s all Oriana talks about.” 

“Yes, well,” her father shifted on his heels and Aoife knew that she was not going to like what he said next. “I want to ask you if you would consider allowing me to bring a miniature with me?”

“You want to my permission to bring a miniature of me to Orlias?” Aoife knew she looked dumbfounded. Of all the possible thing her father could have asked her or said this was the last thing she had expected. “Why in Andraste’s name...?”

She let her words falter as her father’s face became a grim seriousness that she typically associated with the times he was formulating the best way to strike at a nest of bandits that had take root on the Coastwards Road. A mounting sense of doom was rolling over her as her mind began making the connections she desperately wanted not to see. 

“The King is seeking an alliance with Orlais and we will need someone in the Orlesian court to see that it does not become a yoke.”

Aoife felt as though the ground had crumbled beneath her, “You want me to marry one of them, don’t you? You want me to marry someone in the Empress’ court so I can be your eyes in Orlais.”

“The King is risking a great deal to cement this alliance, but he his not so naive to trust that Orlais will not try to use this opportunity to reclaim its lost province,” her father had turned his face away from hers, his gaze seemingly fixed on Highever. “The Orlesian think that we know nothing of their great game. That we are all open faced and easily manipulated. That it is only a matter of time before the Empire will once again over take us. I fought too hard in the rebellion, pup, to see that happen. This alliance has the potential to bring lasting peace between our nations, but there will be opportunities during the negotiations for things to go horribly wrong.”

“Why me, father, why do I have to do this?” She was whining, she could hear the slide and up-pitch of her voice, but she didn’t care.

The Teyrn looked back at Aoife with a winsome smile, “I think you can answer that for yourself, pup. Aldous may complain about your cheek, but he knows you to be a quick and apt student.”

She did not want to think about why her father wanted her to do this, but she could. He had made sure she had the skill to tease out the political implications of such a marriage. It also meant she knew exactly what it would mean to be wed to an Orlesian, as well as what it would mean if her potential husband found out why she had truly agreed to marry him. Pinching her eyes shut for a moment as if it might turn this whole conversation into a horrible daydream, Aoife let out a resigned sigh, “If this is what you think is best father then do ahead and float the idea of my marriage around the Orlesian court. It might even distract the nobles there from whatever you and the King are truly after, but I make no promises that I will agree to it in the end.”

It was the Teyrn who let out the next sigh of resignation as he shook his head slightly, “Still my stubborn, fierce girl I see. Well, I suppose I can’t ask anymore of you since are determine to turn up your nose at all the eligible men closer to home. Shall I see you back to your mother before she sends that hound of yours out after you?”

Aoife tried to smile heartily back at her father as he took his arm, but her heart had climbed into her throat and she felt like she couldn’t breath. To marry one of the men her mother was determined to throw at her or agree to a marriage of political convenience, what kind of choice was that?


	4. Alistair POV: Ambushed

King Cailan's scouts had come to the Grey Warden encampment early that morning, letting them know that Duncan had been spotted on the road leading to Ostagar, and if his pace held, he should reach the Tevinter ruin just after midday. The relief that rippled through the Wardens had be palpable, even if all that King’s troops noticed was a renewed industriousness from the Grey Warden section of camp. 

Alistair spent the morning going over his equipment. The note that had arrived from Duncan the day before yesterday had been vague on a lot of points, like how the Warden Commander had managed to recruit the daughter of a Teyrn, or what had exactly had happened in Highever, but it had been clear one. Duncan was expecting him to see the recruits through their Joining. 

Despite having found a home within the ranks of the Grey Wardens, the idea of having to lead, in however a small capacity, made him shudder. Still, it was better than actually having to participate in the Joining. He still woke most nights drenched in a cold sweat after reliving every agonising detail of his own Joining.

“You know I didn’t really get to see much of her, Brion. The Commander had me in the saddle as soon as he finished penning his dispatch,” Alistair paused cocking his head slightly askance as he heard Turlough sighing with exasperation behind him.

The scout had been rather close mouthed about what had happened in Highever, much to the frustration of the other Wardens. They liked knowing who might potentially be joining their ranks, even if some didn’t survive the process. In fact he was fairly certain that there was a rather macabre pool of rations being assembled on the odds of Ser Jory’s survival. Something about the knight’s polished manners and vapid talk about glory and honor had the Wardens betting more in favor of the sneak-thief Daveth's chances.

It seemed to Alistair that they were even more insistence about the details of this particular recruit because she was a woman. Though women were not unheard of within the ranks of the order, there had not been a woman among the Ferelden Wardens since Warden Commander Polara, or at least that was what Alistair gathered from the swirl of conversation and speculation that erupted when Duncan’s missive arrived.

Not that Alistair wasn’t curious about the women himself, he just couldn’t seem to manage the interest to care. Having grown up in the Chantry, his experience with women was rather limited. It was something his fellow Grey Wardens had teased him about mercilessly after his Joining and the fact that the woman was a noble was enough to give him pause. His experiences with highborn ladies had not been pleasant ones after all.

“Come off it, Turlough, You know as well as I do that when the Commander gets a up the motivation to scout someone there’s good reason, and we all know your eyes are as sharp as his,” Brion’s words came out in a clipped rush of frustration. “We’ve all heard the rumors, all we want to know is if there’s any stock in them.”

“Look,” Turlough gave a long and hefty sigh, “all I know it that we weren’t expecting Duncan until the following afternoon at the earliest but then he stumbled into camp just a few hours before dawn with her. Both of them were covered in blood, and none of it was theirs. Whatever happened, it was bad, Brion. The girl looked battle-dazed.”

Giving up all pretenses of minding his own business, Alistair turned towards the other two Wardens, curious to see if Turlough let anymore information slip through his tight lips. The rumours touted that Teryn Cousland’s daughter was an auburn haired beauty who was easily the equal of any man on the field or off. A finer heir, as the rumors whispered it, than her somewhat lack-witted, if genile brother, to inherit the Teyrner of Highever. To Alistair, it made the woman sound like Queen Anora, well everything except the swordsmanship that is, as it was well known that the largest weapon the Queen had ever held was the knife she used to cut her meat.

Brion stood with his thickly muscled arms crossed over his armor and the hilt of his massive battle axe poking menacingly out from behind his left shoulder. The red haired Warden had a chiseled face that only a mother could love, all hard angles, scruff, and piercing green eyes. By comparison, Turlough was wiry with a face that drew many an appreciative glance from the ladies of Denerim with his long lashes, soft grey eyes, and a long dark locks he kept pulled back from his face with a pair of thin temple height braids. He stood resting his hands on the top of the bleached whitewood longbow with all the easy of a man not easily troubled. Both men had a scattering of grey in their hair, and in Brion's case in the scraggy tangle he called a beard, which was due more to the taint that coursed through their bodies than being a reflection of their actual age.

“Battle-dazed you say?” Brion’s head had a thoughtful turn to it, “And both her and the Commander covered in blood? Maker’s Mercy, Turlough, what happened?”

Turlough shrugged, “Your guess is as good as mine, but I spent a good two hours picking my way through the woods avoiding Arl Howe’s men who were stirring about the place like a kick over hive of painted wasps. I’ll bet my bow that it was the Teryn’s daughter they were looking for and I don’t think they had the best intentions if they managed to find her.”

“Politics,” Brion spat as he shook his head, “I just hope she ends up being worth it, the Commander risked a lot of trouble with Teyrn Mac Tir by not coming straight to Ostagar.”

Turlough shrugged, “Like I said, they were both covered in blood. I didn’t get the impression that she got that way by hiding behind the Commander. She had all the markings of an accomplished swordswoman, and she carried two blades, with nary a shield or bow in sight.”

That garnered a low whistle of from Brion, “Well doesn’t that beat all. I thought for sure she’d be the hack and bash job that her brother is by all accounts.”

“Teyrn Cousland appears to have had something unique in mind when it came to his daughter,” the grin that had spread across Turlough’s face had Alistair shifting uncomfortably on his heels as his brain tried to grasp at the older Warden’s insinuation. He knew that it was more typical of cutpurses, thieves, and scoundrels to be proficient in wielding two blades, but Alistair wasn’t sure why that constituted the particularly wry and lusty grin that had spread across Turlough’s face.

“Apparently so,” Brion was scratching his beard looking thoughtfully around the Grey Warden encampment when his deep-set and startling green eyes locked with Alistair’s. The older Warden’s grin was full of lascivious mirth as he called Turlough’s attention to the fact that Alistair had observed their exchange. 

Alistair stifled a groan, of all the Wardens, Turlough was the hardest on him about his lack of experience with women. He had even threatened to drag Alistair off to the Pearl once, before Duncan had intervened.

“Hey Alistair,” Turlough’s eyes narrowed into sparkling grey gimlets and his grin was practically dripping with sarcasm as he looked over at Alistair, “maybe you can ask her to give you a tumble while you’re out in the Wilds tonight, we wouldn’t want our Chantry boy going out into battle still wet behind the balls.”

Hefting his shield over his shoulder, Alistair stomped out of the encampment as his face began feel hot. He knew from the way Turlough was chuckling and Brion was smiling that he was blushing furiously. If there was anything he hated more than being raised in the Chantry, it was how that upbringing had shelter him from some of the more colorful life experiences. Though he wasn’t entirely sure he would have had those experiences even if he had stayed in Redcliffe, he had always been rather awkward around girls, well, unless they happened to almost break his arm by running him over. But that had been years ago and he had never seen that particular girl again. Not that he really remembered what that girl looked like, Lady Isolde had had him switched by the quartermaster when the cook reported that some cheese had gone missing from the larder. 

With his cheeks burning less furiously, Alistair was about to wander about camp aimlessly when he heard a sharp, strident voice calling his name.

Alistair didn’t stifle his groan this time as he turned to see the Revered Mother baring down on him. He really needed to pay more attention to where her was going when he stormed off in embarrassment.


	5. Alistair POV: Foreward

Wwwooootto.

It was a clear whistling. High and commanding, it brought the short pointy ears of the mabari warhound to attention, even though his mistress was half way across camp. 

Alistair watched the square jawed and thickly muscled war hound bound across the clearing. He wasn’t staring, or even remotely curious what his fellow Gray Warden was doing talking to Morrigan at this hour, but he certainly wasn’t staring. He was just observing the night, that was it, being watchful in case any darkspawn or bandits happened to wander into camp. Well, he was on first watch with Shale that night, wasn’t he? It was part of the job wasn’t it, watching the camp? Making sure everything was safe and all? Yes that was it, he consoled himself as he continued to look off in the direction of the witch’s fire.

There was a lithe frame silhouetted against the far fire light, settling on one knee as the mabari came to an attentive halt. Alistair could just pick out the coldly imperious grumbling of Morrigan, followed by tinkling soft laughter. The sparkle of that sound almost did him in, as he found himself grinding his teeth. Morrigan certainly didn’t deserve to hear that sound, that was sure. It was a warm friendly sound. Warm and friendly where not words that he associated with the wilder witch. Cold, haughty, cruel, and bitchy, now those were words that he could stand by when it came to Morrigan. 

There was nothing for it though even as the sound of Morrigan’s barely warm taunt of a laugh made him want to walk over there that slap the witch. He knew that their fearless leader was just doing her nightly rounds. She did that, it was like a ritual almost, checking in with them, or asking them about things that their motley band had commented on during the day. He admired her for it usually, how she had managed to keep all of them focused on the task at hand, rather than at each other's throats. But tonight, the sound of her chatting with Morrigan just made his teeth hurt. Still as much as he wanted to march over there right now, he’d probably just end up embarrassing himself again, much to Morrigan’s delight. 

The firelight was glinting off the rich deep red highlights of mahogany hair as the only other Grey Warden in the whole of Ferelden besides him stood and ruffled the fur on the top of the mabari’s head. The war hound looked as though it was leaning greedily into the touch, and then bounded around it’s mistress as she began walking back over to the main fire.

Dear Maker, this was bad. She had this uncanny knack for catching him out, but he couldn’t help himself. Shale was grinding a slow pace between Morrigan’s tent and Wynne’s. Leliana had gone to sleep an hour ago. Sten was doing some sort of Qunari mediation exercise just past were Shale was pacing. Alistair would have been amused by the idea of Shale deliberately pacing there just to annoy the taciturn Qunari, but he was sure the golem would never own up to it, it would be too close to actually caring about flesh creatures. Zevran, well he was off bathing or something, for an assassin, the elf was rather fastidious. No one was paying Alistair much attention, so it was the perfect time to stare without being prodded or teased and so he continued to watch, secretly hoping he didn’t have some sloppy grin on his face in case she caught him. Well, when she caught him, as it was probably inevitable, uncanny knacks and all.

As if thinking about it could make it happen, she looked up from carefully treading around her excited war hound and tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear. Her eyes had the soft focus of someone looking around but not really seeing everything or maybe they were, because they certainly found his easily enough.

Andraste’s mercy, he could feel his face breaking out with red and warm embarrassment. That she was smiling back at him with one brow cocked knowingly as she tilted her head slightly made the redness explode over his face even more rapidly than it had when she had propositioned him about spending the night in her tent. It felt as if his ears might be aflame as well, which was great, just peachy in fact, as it made him feel more the fool for turning her down.

He couldn’t look at her anymore, getting lost in those deep green pools that served as her eyes, he was getting flustered in more ways than just having his face turn a bright shade of red. Her laughter, soft and chucking, like her voice whenever she told him he looked cute when he was being bashful or awkward seared his ears, and he found his head snapping back around.

She was holding the flaps of her tent open, watching her warhound pad into the dimly lit space. He had almost forgotten how she could move far more silently than Zevran when she wanted to, which was saying a lot about her skill when compared to the former Antivan Crow.

Maker’s breath, he watched the space beyond the narrowing opening and caught a hint of a bare shoulder as the canvas finally fell shut. He had never wanted to be a dog so much in his life as he did in that moment.


	6. Alistair POV: Cherished

“Your are happy, right, I mean, we’re good right? This is good, us together,” Maker help him he was babbling again. He’d been in a state all day after Zevran had offered to give him _‘advice’ _on how to, well, improve his performance. Andraste's flaming sword, even in his head he couldn’t come out and say what he meant. “It’s working, right. I mean I certainly enjoy it. You do too, right? You’d tell me if you weren’t? I mean if I’m doing it wrong or something…”__

She put a finger to his lips and he felt fire spread over his cheeks as he looked around the tent they’d taken to sharing. Sighing as she pulled her finger away, he ran his hand through his increasingly unruly hair, he’d have to tie it back soon just to keep it out of his face, but he’d rather grow it out then ask anyone to cut it for him. He had enough embarrassment to deal with it lately without adding to it by begging one of their companions to give him a trim.

There was the oddest smile on her face when the fire in his cheeks finally burned down and he could bear to look directly at her again.

“What?” he shifted uncomfortably on his shins as he settled into a more comfortable cross-legged position. The upturn of her full lips reminded him of the mischievous grin she had worn when she had called him her ‘prince,’ or worse of Wynne when the mage had caught him staring at her when he thought no one was looking. Maker’s mercy, even in just a simple tunic and breeches she was still the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Images of her in more courtly attire, well, in any attire actually, had fueled some rather interesting dreams until he finally got up the nerve to ask her spend the night with him. And now she was staring at him with a sly gleam in her eye that was making him nervous. 

“Zevran would be thrilled to know you’ve been stewing about this all day,” she chuckled.

“Ah,” he wasn’t sure what was more embarrassing, the original conversation with the Antivan Crow or the fact that she had overheard them, “heard that did you.” 

“The two of you weren't being all that discrete, Alistair,” she cocked her head to the side as she pulled her right knee up and draped her arm over her waiting kneecap. “Which, I suppose was part of the fun for Zevran.”

“I hate the way he stares at you,” Alistair blurted and looked away from her again, slightly stunned that he had let that out, but between Zevran's comments and the elf’s roving eyes Alistair was a bundle of nerves and insecurities.

He heard the soft rustle of leather and wool before he felt her hands slip along either side of his face and turn it back towards her gaze. Andraste preserve him, he could easily get lost for hours in those deep verdant eyes. the way the caught the light and danced when she was happy, or burned like mage fire when she was angry. They were burning with the lingering heat of low coals now as she looked at him.

“It’s just…,” he didn’t get to finish the thought, or have much though other than the overwhelming need to match the fierceness of her kiss.

Her hands slipped from around his jaw line and into his hair as he ran his tongue along the seam of her lips. As her mouth opened and his tongue met hers, he wrapped his hands around her wiry frame, slipped them roughly down her back, and hoisted her up into his lap. Groaning slightly as she squirmed against him, he wound his arms around her and pressed her against his chest. 

Alistair almost growled at her when she broke away first, leaning her forehead against his, “I love YOU, Alistair, not Zevran. Besides, from everything I’ve heard about Antivan men, lurid stairs are par for the course.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or concerned that you know so much about Antivan men, but then your sister-in-law was Antivan wasn’t she?” he chuckled, brushing her hair back behind her ear.

A shadow of something pulled straining the corners of her eyes and for a moment when she blinked her eyes where dark sorrow filled depths, but then she shook her head and the eyes that looked back at him where bright, if a little watery.

His fingers twined into her burnished waves and he kissed her forehead softly, “You’ll tell me about them someday?”

She nodded, the watery glaze to her eyes welling into full fledged tears as she buried her face into his chest. He held her tightly, kissing the top of her head softly, determined to better than the last time he’d watch her cry and hoping she didn’t feel the shudder that quaked through him at that thought. It was by no means a pleasant one.

The first time he had seen her cry it had startled him. She’d been so strong, indomitable even, after Ostagar, but then they had gone to Redcliffe. He had been relieved that she had chosen to save the Arl’s family, but she had seemed distant as the camped that night on the shores of Lake Calenhad. 

She had barely spoken to anyone that night, save Morrigan, which probably contributed to how solidly he had rammed his foot in his mouth. He had watched her wander off towards the shore of lake with her hound with growing concern and a bit of smoldering jealousy. They were friends weren’t they? Why did Morrigan get to listen to whatever concerns she had and not him?

When it seemed like she had been gone longer than was prudent, he stalked off after her.

“Umm, Alistair?” Leliana popped up along side him, her brow was furrowed, “I’d leave her alone right now, if I were you. She didn’t look like she wanted company.”

He stopped and turned slightly to face the bardic lay sister that he still wasn’t sure about, “You’re right Leliana, I’m not you.” And then he stormed off again, as he began to fume slightly around the edges. What was it about women? Did they have some secret code?

When he found her, she was sitting on one of the many boulders that lined the craggy shore of the lake. Her hound was laying at her feet with his head nestled in her lap. It was the hounds plaintive whimpers that should have been his first clue. The way she absently drew her hand over her cheek before listlessly petting the war-hounds head should have served as the second piece of evidence that all was not well. 

"So I'm wondering what was so important that you had to talk to Morrigan after supper," he tried to not sound waspish, but he knew he failed.

Her shoulders slumped forward as she ran one hand through the loose tangle of her hair, while the other rubbed the skin under her cheeks again, "Angry I didn't talk to you instead?"

If he'd been thinking clearly he might have noticed the crack in her voice or how rough it sounded, instead he crossed his arms over his chest and grumbled, "A little. I don't trust her and I certainly can't imagine why you do."

She sighed, "I'm tired, Alistair, do we really need to discuss this now?"

"You weren’t too tired to talk to her."

"That's rather petty of you, Alistair, don't you think?" She had turned her face towards him, but it was still mostly hidden by her hair and the dying light.

"No, I don't think it is. Marker’s mercy she an apostate mage and probably a maleifcar."

"Did you really follow me all the way out here to complain about Morrigan?"

"Yes...no, maybe, I just thought...," he trailed off not knowing how to answer her now that he thought about it.

"Thought what? That she might change my mind about going to the Tower?" She sprung up for the rock and turned sharply towards him. Her face was mottled, her cheeks were swollen, and her eyes were glassy and bright. "Do I really strike you as the type to go back on my word?"

“No, that’s not it. Andraste’s flaming sword,” Alistair felt like the ground was shifting underneath him as something about the haggardness of her face had made suddenly made his sure footing unsafe, “I trust you, but I don’t trust her to give you good advice.”

When her hound started to growl at him, Alistair knew he was in trouble, but he wasn’t about to retreat from his point, not yet at least.

“Damn it, Alistair,” she clenched her hands into tight fists and slammed them against her tights, the noise she made was something between a choking sob and frustrated scream. It made him wince as if she’d slapped him. “You put me in this position after Ostagar! You swore you didn’t want to lead and yet here you are questioning my decisions.”

“It’s not your decisions that bother me,” he felt like he was trying to build a defense against her with sand as he shot back. “It’s your trust in these people you’ve collected. An assassin? A dubiously cloistered sister? A murderer? I’m just trying to understand why you put so much stock in what they have to say.”

“Because Cousland’s always do their duty first, Alistair. You left it up to me, so here I am doing my duty because that is what my family would want, what they would expect. Maker’s mercy. Alistair, it’s what my father practically begged of me as he lay dying in a pool of his own blood,” there were tears trailing down her face now, even as her anger buffeted him with another volley of unseen blows. She seemed to bit off the last few words though what must have been a rather tight and stiff jaw, “And I will use every resource at my disposal to do so.” 

And that was when Alistair finally remembered what Duncan had told him after her joining. Her whole family, mother, father, her brother's wife, her nephew, all murdered by Arl Rendon Howe. Duncan had asked him to look out for her, worried despite the fact that she had survived her joining that she might not have finished mourning such an encompassing loss, and he’d forgotten. Overwhelmed by his own loss of the surrogate family he had found in the Gray Wardens, Alistair had forgotten the one promise he’d made to a man that he’d come to think of as a kind of father.

Maker’s breath, he’d done more than forgotten, he’d ignored. Refusing to see the pained look in her eyes as she watched the boy in Lothering run off with her silver. How she had spoken to the child gently as she tried to grasp at someway to help him before ruffling his mop of red hair and making him promise he’d go to the Chantry after getting himself something to eat. And then when the notice showed up on the Chanter’s board, Alistair never gave a thought to the stricken look that she quickly covered by asking Leliana what she knew about the town. And now with Connor, he hadn’t been sure who she had been angrier with back at Redcliffe, him for suggesting they kill a child or Lady Isolde for putting the boy in the position in the first place.

“I..I’m,,,sorry, I should have realized,” he felt like wind had been knocked out of him. “Duncan...he told me what happened...I...I’m sorry.”

“Why?” Andraste’s mercy if he never heard that hard coldness in her voice again he’d promise to tithe thirty silver to every Chantry they passed, but she continued and held no punches, “I mean I had a whole fortnight of travel with Duncan to mourn right? I should be perfectly capable of holding myself together. Expect now there’s a boy barely older than my dead nephew. And all I see when I look at him is Oren lying a pool of his own blood. Oren who only wanted to grow up to be a warrior like his father. Oren who I held when he was barely three hours old and taught how to pinch sweet cakes from the larder when Nan wasn’t looking. So forgive me for asking our only _MAGE _if this plan to enter the Fade will actually work. Forgive me for having doubts about whether I should have just let his mother sacrifice herself to save her son, as I’m sue Oriana would have done if she’d been give a chance. And forgive me most of all it seems for not talking to _you _about all this and wanting a moments peace to _myself _.”______

Alistair could barely breathe. It was like being back a the monastery all over again and being kicked by all the highborn boys who though he was putting on airs, while the poorer boys looked on and barely hid their sniggeres. No, it was worse than that, because he deserved every last scrap of angry in her voice, every last sneered word that lashed at him like the bash of a shield. And it was made a thousand time more painful by every tear he watched stream down her face to drip awkwardly off her chin.

__She let out a sigh that seemed to have been dragged out of some hollow place with in her chest when he continued to look at her, not trusting himself to speak. Shaking her head, she wiped away the fresh streams of tears, “Go back to camp Alistair.”_ _

__And Maker forgive him, he practically ran the whole way back while her cursed himself for being such a blind fool._ _

__Now, instead of running, he shifted her in his arms, brushing away tear matted hair, and tilting her chin up so that her green eyes meet his honey amber ones, hoping she could see how much he loves her. He smiled gently, not letting her worm back against his chest as he placed soft brushing kisses on the rivulets of tears that have crisscrossed her cheeks before pressing his forehead back into hers, “I love you.”_ _

__She nods, and he can see fresh tears welling in her eyes as her hands wind tighter in his tunic and presses a hard and fierce kiss on his lips._ _


	7. King Alistair POV: "SO Much More Interesting to Keep You At Court"

“I hate this. I think might lodge an official complaint with the First Warden,” Alistair was watching the reflection of his love, correction his love and wife, remove her earrings. Her green eyes sparkled in the dim candlelight, and he only had to notice the slight arch to her fine brows to know that his voice was pitching towards whiney. Still, they had just barely returned from the traditional tour of the nation as King and Princess-Consort when a courier from Weisshaupt arrived, followed shortly by several letters from various Bans of the Bannorn demanding the personal attention of the king to settle yet another dispute over land. “I mean, who does he think he is commondering my wife like this so soon after our wedding?”

“I think you’ll have better luck wrangling the Bannorn than getting the First Warden to care about the desires of newlyweds, my love,” she was looking up at him through the mirror, and Marker’s Breath if he wasn’t standing at attention in more ways than one as she smiled, her fine boned fingers beginning to pull the diamond headed pins from the curls her handmaiden had piled on top of her head for the return feast. “Besides, I’m not leaving for Amaranthine until my escort arrives.”

“Hpmh, knowing our luck she’ll show up tomorrow,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned against the bottom left corner of their bed. The palace seneschal had been relieved, if mockingly scandalized, when Alistair had insisted that his new bride share the royal apartments with him, rather than continue sleeping in the suite of rooms Anora had favored while Calain had been king. As his gaze wandered over the reflection of her cream colored skin to the rise of her breast beneath her dressing gown, he knew that the next few months were going to be pure torture.

“You’re not going to sulk, are you Alistair?” her voice was teasing and her eyes danced merrily as she turned her face towards him, her hair rippling down her back in soft mahogany waves. “You know this is important, we need to deal with the darkspawn that haven’t fled back to the Deep Roads. Who else did you expect the the First Warden would appoint as Commander of the Grey?”

He let out a long sigh, pushing off the bed post and crossing the six too many steps to her side, “I know, but can you blame me for wanting you all to myself for a change? Between the wedding plans, roving darkspawn, and the Bannorn, not to mention having to give the nobles a sham of Ferelden chasity, we’ve had a mere handful of hours alone together.”

“No, I suppose I can’t begrudge you for that,” she had slipped her sword calloused hand across his lap and into his equally rough palm as he sank facing her onto the narrow tufted bench. He could see the fine creases at the corners of her eyes and the other faint worry lines that she had collected during the Blight. Her smile had thinned, wan and resigned, as her eyes became distant and a hardness crept into them. She shook her head slightly and those stubborn tendrils of hair that she was forever tucking behind her ears tumbled forward, “This is probably for the best you know. If I look like I’m busy with Amaranthine and the Wardens then the nobles can’t complain that the Hero of Ferelden has too much influence over the king…” 

Even after everything they had been through during the Blight, the whole room still seemed to fall away and he lost all capacity for rational thought when he was this close to her.

“... and it’s not like you can’t stop by the keep, the Arling of Amaranthine isn't’ that far from...haa.”

His eyes knew her lips were saying something, probably something practical that would ensure that he stayed sane while their duties to crown, country, and, in her case the Grey Wardens, kept them temporarily apart but he had stopped listening. Instead, he pulled her hand up to his lips, brushing her knuckles lightly with them before turning her hand over and planting a more fevered kiss on the inside of her wrist. Her breath hitched as her words petered out.

He never got tired of hearing that breathy sound.

“You know,” he felt himself smiling wryly as he tucked a stray russett curl behind her ear and she shivered as his fingers grazed her skin, “I could tell Eamon to hold down the nobles for a few days, well, at least until your escort arrives.”

“Oh,” she was leaning into his hand, as he found he couldn’t bear to tear it away from cradling the line of her jaw. There was a sparkle once again dancing in the emerald depths of her eyes, along with a smoldering promise of a sleepless night, “and whatever would we do with the time, my king?”

Slipping his fingers into her hair, he pulled her into a kiss. Her lips meet his with the same intensity so that he wasn’t sure who opened their mouth first before their tongues were waging a heady war. He found that his arms had slipped around her as they drowned in the tangle of their lips and had pulled her nimble frame into his lap.

“Hmm,” he said breathlessly when they finally came up for air, “I sure I can come up with a few things for us to do, I am king after all.”


	8. Warden Cousland: The Korcari Wilds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Had a sad headcanon thought about all those bodies in the Wilds, decided to write it up. First posted to my tumblr: http://niamaduir.tumblr.com/post/143946383985/the-korcari-wilds

She refused to look down, training her eye ahead of her with only a cursory sweep of the ground. Enough to spot the inconsistencies in the rise and the disturbed earth of a concealed trap. But that was a soft gaze, just enough attention to notice, but not enough to see. Actual sight she reserved for her grizzly foe. With them, she mapped out their gray mottled, sometimes blackened, and pockmarked skin. She memorized the fine web work of scarred and melted flesh. She stared fully into what reminded her the glassy haze of cataract eyes, save for their hollow and gaunt inset into the skull. She burned the image of the darkspawn into her mind. It was easier than dealing with the growing panic that gathered at her feet.

It had risen slowly. A pin prick thought that stabbed her as she watched the scout Alistair had bandaged shuffled back towards Ostagar. What if, it hissed, what if he was with Fergus’ men? It was certainly possible, wasn’t it? She did not know all the men in Fergus’ company, most had been levied from the banns, arls, knights, and freemen that called the Teyrnir of Highever home. And who knew which men he had taken with him to scout in the wilds around the ruin. She tried to shake off the thought and beat it back with each strike, parry, and thrust of her sword. But the doubts lingered, feasting on her horror, supping on her anger, and drinking down her sorrow, growing fat on the pain of her parent’s death.

So she gritted her teeth and stopped looking down. She let her eyes pass over the mangled bodies, the swaying of the poor sods, and the torn pieces of human flesh that were displayed about the woods. Still, sometimes her eyes caught the blood on a leaf or the acrid smoke of burnt flesh make her eyes water till she was forced to wipe them and then she would see the death at her feet. And in those moments, it took all her strength not to buckle and crash under the weight of her worries.


	9. Warden Queen: Homecoming

She’s so covered in dirt that the city guards almost don’t open the gates. As it is the poor night watch captain looks at her like he’s seen a ghost, or maybe a demon. White as a sheet and stammering, he almost trips over himself to help her off her horse and send word ahead to the palace. She refuses the offer, well-meaning as it is because she’s caused enough of a stir already. Besides, it’s already well past midnight. She foes agree to his suggestion of an escort, but only because it will make navigating the city easier.

It’s been years since she was last here.

The city has grown. She hardly recognizes it. Streets once reduced to rubble are once again paved smooth. There are shops in places where there were once homes and homes were there were once shops. When she asks about the alienage, the guards give her a sharp look before reporting that the alienage was dismantled shortly after she went missing and the elf Shianni took over for Hahern Valendrian on the city counsel.

She can’t help the grin that slips her face, knowing her love has managed many of their plans while she’s been gone. But the smile is tucked at the corners, drawn and slightly turned down. There’s been so much she’s missed. So many things she hasn’t been here for, and she has to press the heels of her hands against her eyes to stem her tears. If the guards notice how her eyes shine brighter in the sputtering torchlight, they don’t say anything. 

Despite the city’s growth, it stills smells the same. Something she’s both grateful for and a bit overwhelmed by after so much time on the road. She hasn’t spent much time in more conventional human settlements over the past few years, save to resupply and occasionally sleep on an actual bed. So the mix of dog, mud, foundries, tanners, and the sea is sharp enough to make her nose burn and her eyes water with more than her regretful tears. Still, she’s grateful that at least some things haven’t changed.

It isn’t long before they are at the palace and she’s relieved to find that the gate guards seemed to have kept their word. There is no fanfare, no waiting Banns or Arls, just quiet hallways and startled servants. 

She finds the baths without too much trouble and washes off the road until the water is a dull gray and her muscles have gone loose and limp. It’s a necessary delay, but it doesn’t bring her as much peace of mind as she hoped. The doubts that have been growing since she crossed the border. Their loud and insistent, and almost as crippling as her dreams where once. She’s tried to allay them with a bit of parchment, worn and worried at the edges from use. But she can’t help them now. Not when she’s finally…

“Your back,” the words are a horse echo of the ones she heard outside an old woman’s hut, and just as raw. They cut through her and clench around her heart.

Her eyes pinch closed, tightly walled dams in danger of bursting. She nods, her throat suddenly dry and tight and swollen stubbornly shut.

“Ha…ah,” the breaths sound like they were punched out of him, stuttering reminders of a long-ago moment. “I thought…Maker…I thought you…”

She can hear the shudder in him feel the echo of it in her as she pries open her eyes. The levies are already broken anyhow. But seeing him doesn’t help her move her leaden tongue or force open her caved-in throat. She tries to move her lips, tries to make a sound. Not that she gets much of a chance.

He moves, strikes towards her, and wraps her up against him. And then whatever words she might have pulled loose are swallowed by the press of his lips against hers.

It’s a fierce kiss. A kiss that has her clinging to the front of his tunic. A kiss that comes with the warm weight of his arms as the pull her tight against him until her lungs burn. A kiss that seems bent on proving her existence. That she’s real, that she’s here. As long as it lingers, it is a kiss that ends with the roll of his forehead against hers.

And then finds her voice, a quiet whisper against their mingling breaths, “I’m back.”


	10. Hawke: First Kiss

The way Varric tells it, Anders’ and Gwyn’s first kiss was an open mouthed rush. One of his hands tangling in her hair while the other pressed her against him. Making sure she knew exactly what she did to him. Nothing in The Tale of the Champion was ever done in half-measures, not even the romance. 

So Varric made that kiss a vocal, sloppy thing, full of the force of three years of lingering looks and pinning. A kiss that lingered long and full. Something that stole the air from both their lungs as Anders’ hands suddenly tried to be everywhere at once and she just tried to hold on. A kiss that was broken by his slow pull away and the almost press of their foreheads as they both caught their breath. But then, Varric was also known for his embellishments of her story. Orsino came chiefly to mind, but he also liked to think that he added flare to Gwyn’s love life, too.

In truth and as far as Gwyn was concerned, first kisses she shared with Anders were much smaller in scope and they all counted as much as that “first” kiss. Isabela would have argued with her, Varric certainly had. But it didn’t change how she felt about the kisses that came before the one Varric wrote up and she remembered them all.

The lingering kiss on her knuckles after she’d come to resupply his clinic and make sure he hadn’t pushed himself beyond the edge of his stamina during a particularly bad bout of cholera.

The soft press in her hair after she’d burned her lungs with saar-qamek gas.

The chaste brand she had planted on his and Justice’s cheek before they left the Fade. 

And searing slant of his lips or perhaps Justice’s, she’d never gotten anything more than a sly grin out of Anders about it, just before Keeper Marethari’s spell dissolved around them. 

She never told anyone about that last kiss. How it made her toes curls. How she woke with it still on her lips. How Anders’ grin tucked in at the corners of his mouth with more than just the pride of being the only one in the group who hadn’t betrayed her in the Fade. How she swore she saw Justice’s blue haze sputtering corner of Anders’ eyes when he looked at her, grinning his board grin. It was the one kiss she kept to herself.

A girl had to have some secrets after all.


	11. Solas POV: A Mother’s Battle

Solas looked up through the tower to where Leliana kept her birds, the trail of his gaze taking in the fact that Dorian was leaning on the library railing with his head tilted up in the same direction as Solas’.

“Inquisitor please, the logistics alone would be….” the Spymaster’s voice was pleading, far from the arch tone the woman had once taken with Chancellor Roderick all those months ago.

Something slammed down hard on a table in the heights of the tower, the Inquisitor’s voice rang clear and hard through the tower, “I don’t care about the logistics Leliana, just get her here!”

Josephine’s voice came in with a soothing line that made Solas shake his head and Dorian scoff, “Inquisitor, we understand your frustration but this environment is not exactly suitable for…”

“And being out there is?” Solas felt his hands clench as the Inquisitor’s voice rose another octave. “I don’t think you quite understand anything about me, Ambassador. I’m a Dalish elf at the head of a human organization that was at one time connected to the Chantry. Most think I am a trumped up figurehead and the Seeker Pentaghast, Sister Leliana, and Commander Cullen are the ones who are really calling the shots.“

There was another sharp rap of something smashing against a hard surface as the Inquisitor’s voice twisted and choked, “I was supposed to be back with my clan by now. I was supposed to be taking care of my daughter, not trapped here cleaning up a mess I never created in the first place!”

“Inquisitor, please calm down,” Cullen’s voice was soft and had just enough of a patronizing glint to it that Solas felt himself grinding his teeth. Above him heard Dorian, smash his fist against the railing and hiss. He looked up at the mage from Tevinter, whom he would hardly call a friend, and caught his eye. Dorian looked back at him and nodded before stalking away from the railing. Solas sprinted for the stairs.

The Inquisitor’s voice echoed down the stairs, “Calm down, you want me to calm down when the world is coming apart at the seams? My clan may be able to avoid the worst of the rifts and deal with the demons, but how long do you think it will be before someone attacks them just for being associated with the Herald of Andraste? How long do you think it will take Samson to track them down for Corypheus? Another week? A month maybe? Cullen, we’ve known where they were since before Haven was sacked. Do you really want to wager their lives, my daughter’s life, on the possibility that Corypheus is ignorant of them?”

“Inquisitor, please,” Josephine was joining in again, her voice jarring with exasperation. “We simply cannot…”

A snarling cry that turned into a gasping scream that tore at Solas’ heart echoed down the stairs. Just ahead of him, Dorian let off a steady stream of Tevinter curses.

“Then find yourself another Inquisitor!” The sound of boots hitting the stones of the tower were only the briefest of warnings before the Inquisitor herself stormed by, eyes full of ice. She did not acknowledge either of the mages in her path but slammed her way past them with obvious tears streaking down her face. 

Dorien let out a low whistle as she rounded the corner, “Well, they’ve managed to bungle that up marvelously, now haven’t they? So who do you want to handle? Our not so quietly seething leader or the imbeciles upstairs?”

Solas looked up towards the loft and then down in the direction the Inquisitor had stormed off. He wanted to take off after her, but it would be better if he did not, he had already encouraged her far more than he should have. As if sensing his hesitation, Dorian let out a huffed breath and brushed past him, “I’ll find her, you’re more diplomatic than I am anyway.”


	12. Dorian POV: A Matter of Height

Dorian shaded his eyes from the glare of the afternoon sun. The distant figure on the parapet was pacing rapidly back and forth. He should have known she’d go for somewhere high. Back in Haven, they’d swapped stories about their homes and families with their feet dangling over of the rocky ledges behind Adan’s cabin.

“How in the Marker’s name did she get up there?” he murmured to himself, not enjoying the prospect of the climb.

“The first time she uses her fingers. Scabbing, scrambling for purchase. She almost falls once. Heart racing pounding, pulling her to the top. Now she uses rope. The ladder is hidden, an old trick, you have to know where to look,” Cole’s head tick to the left looking between Dorian and the distant Inquisitor, “She won’t let you up.”

“Yes, well that doesn’t mean I won’t try,”” Dorian responded with a brusque crispness that he had not intended to direct at Cole. It wasn’t the spirit or abomination or whatever it was’s fault she was stalking erratic circles amid the crumbling parapets. 

“Good,” Cole said the word with a firmness that surprised Dorian more than the abomination’s appearance. “She’s very angry. Why don’t the other’s understand?”

Dorian sighed, trying not to grind his teeth in the process, “I honestly have no idea.”

“But you do,” the way Cole cocked his head sometimes rather reminded Dorian of the large exotic birds that some of the magisters back home kept for their plumage. “They rattle around, loud and angry, almost shouting outside. You wanted to yell at them. Words to rip and rend, to make them feel small like she does. To put them in her place, but to hurt them too. No, you were right, Solas was the better choice.”

“I’m so glad we agree on that Cole,” Dorian rubbed his fingers over his brow before he looked into the abominations pale blue eyes, “now would you be so kind as to show me the way up?”

“I can’t.” 

He rubbed his forehead again, “You can’t or you won’t?”

“She asked me not to. No, she says not now. Eyes tearing with both anger and sadness. but there is fear too. Not for herself, never for herself. Can’t let herself break with the fear,” Cole shuddered, his pale blue eyes glinting eerily from beneath the brow of his hat. “She shouldn’t be alone like this.”

Dorian sighed again and tilted his head as his eyes skimmed up the side of the dilapidated tower. He really didn’t want to try climbing it but he wasn’t about to let his friend stew on her own. With one last withering look at the tower, he strode towards the door that hung half of its hinges.


	13. Inquisitor Lavellan: Insult to Injury

This first time she takes a hit it’s just after they’ve essentially cleared out Crestwood. And as thought the Creators’s felt the need to add insult to injury, it happens shortly after they manage to take out that high dragon.

In hindsight, it probably wasn’t anyone’s fault really. They were all exhausted. The dragon had sapped their resources and one night’s rest at Caer Bronach really wasn’t enough to ensure they were fully recuperated. Still, there wasn’t really much rest to be had as the Inquisitor. So they’d set out early for Skyhold.

She knows she should be on alert as they ride. She knows she shouldn’t be dozing in her saddle. She knows that they’ve run into bandits on this path before, but she’s too exhausted to care. Her bones ache and there’s a not in her back that she’s sure even Solas expert fingers could not pry loose.

This is, of course, what makes her an easy target.

However, the bandits only manage to have the upper hand for so long. Being in danger for one’s life does have a rather invigorating effect on dulled senses. And she, Dorian, Bull, and Blackwall make quick work of the would-be highwaymen.

It isn’t until the battle is over that she notices the arrow in her thigh, and the blood. She chuckles, noticing how the shaft has dug deep and marvels that it did not bite straight through. Though she thinks she can feel the rasp of the arrowhead rubbing on the chain mail on the opposite side of her leg. 

Dorian is pretending not to fuss over a blood streaked Bull, who is, in turn, pretending to be mildly annoyed. Blackwall is looking down the edge of his blade, worrying it for signs of failure. No one is paying her any mind. After all, she stays at the back of their fights, covering Dorian as her arrows, spreading poison and death from above. By the Void, she’s even still mounted on her hart, while the others beginning to coax back their startled mounts. 

Slowly, she fishes a healing potion out of her belt pouch. It won’t magically remove the arrow, but she’s starting to feel a bit light headed. Funny thing, though, she can’t quite work off the cork. The movement is subtle, but it’s enough to upset her balance. It’s not like she can rely on her legs to keep her seat after all.

“Boss!" 

She doesn’t think she’s ever seen Bull move this fast. Though she doesn’t think about it for long as crumpling fall from her mount is enough to force the arrow the rest of the way through her thigh. 

There’s a sound ringing in her ears, loud, sharp, shrill till its a horse choke. She fairly certain it’s her, screaming.

Blackwall is all thumbs as he attempts to undo her leathers and chain. It takes Dorian’s nimble digits and Bull’s careful instructions as to how Dalish armor actually works to expose the wound. By then, she desperately tried and cold. 

"Kaffas,” Dorian pales as he curses. She thinks she manages to give him a thin smile. 

Bull snaps his thick fingers in front of her eyes, “Hey, Boss, no sleeping.”

She’s losing track of her companions. She swore Blackwall was on her left, but now she’s looking at the underside of his beard. He’s pressing down on her shoulders as he looks at her, eyes dark and grim. Bull’s hands press something into her mouth, she almost spits it out, but he says something sharp, a strained panicked sound. So she bites down instead. There’s a wet trail running out from her eyes, making it hard to see Bull secure the lower half of her body. Dorian is a pale watery figure in the distance.

And then there’s pain. Pain that locks her jaw into a rictus bite. Pain that has her arching up against Bull’s formidable grips. Pain that has her forcing Blackwall to bare down harder on her much lither frame. It’s a bright high. And then she’s crashing, sinking into the darkness that’s been hovering on the edge of her sight. 

She knows, even if she can’t remember, that she almost died. She knows that Dorian did his best to heal her. She knows that by the time Solas and Cassandra met them on the road to Skyhold that neither Bull, Blackwall, or Dorian were speaking civilly to one another. She knows that they blamed themselves. 

Still, if they hadn’t made the choices they had. If Bull hadn’t bound it with honey and elfroot. If Dorian had not healed it the best way he knew how. If Blackwall had not thought to send a bird ahead of them when they ran into a pair of Inquisition scouts. If they hadn’t agreed to build a litter. If they hadn’t purged the wound when it began to fester. Well, she certainly would have been dead then.

It only takes her a month of tramping to and from the Fallow Mire with the three of them to get them to realize it too.


	14. Reverence for the Dead

The Inquisitor takes out the chest late at night. Often when sleep has utterly eluded them and the pale rosy smear of dawn is beginning to creep over the snowcapped mountains. With everything that needs attending to whenever they return to Skyhold, this small task often gets left till last, if not entirely drowned out by their own exhaustion.

The box is a small thing made of oak and stained a rich deep amber. Solid and lacking in ostentation, it is bound with a few decorative bands of well-oiled iron and set with a sturdy lock. It took them forever to find the right chest. Small enough that they could shift it on their own, but still spacious enough to serve their needs. As they run their hand over the exposed joinery, they think that Blackwall would approve, even if he’d be slightly offended they hadn’t asked him to make it himself. But they couldn't bear the thought of stealing a moment away from the grizzly Warden's toy making. The children in the camps strewn about the valley below Skyhold deserved any moment of joy the world sees fit to grant them these days.

As they slip the key for the box from around their neck, the anchor sputters and hisses. A jarring line of pain shoots along their bones and rattles their teeth. The reason they kneel before it in the small hours of the morning when all the rest of Skyhold is still soundly asleep. A reminder of why this box exists. 

Eyes pinched shut, lips rolled and pressed between their teeth, they wait for the pain to subside. It never lingers long. A brief admonition that their work is far from done drawn in on the fitful tide of exhaustion that always come in the wake of these episodes. They can almost hear Solas' plea of caution as the pain recedes and they set the key in the lock. Maybe tomorrow, they'll bother to trouble the elven mage with their concerns about how sharp the pain can be at times.

Tonight, however, there are other things to accomplish, other cares to tuck safely away, other duties to attend before the world calls them away again. As the Inquisitor, as the Herald of Andraste, it is their duty to see this task through.

The pieces of vellum, parchment, and ragged paper that sit beside them ruffle in a stray draft. Some are torn and crumpled. Others are watermarked and smudged almost beyond the point of readability. More than a few are singed, curled to charcoal sharp edges and fragile as glass. A great many of the pages, more than they would like to consider, are splattered with a dark ruddy ichor. 

They have read every loving scrap, every angry word, every contemplative thought. The words are etched equally on their heart as they are on their mind. With all the care of one who prepares the dead, they lift the pile of notes gently and reverently adds the new pages to their brethren in the strongbox. 

One day, when the Corypheus is dealt with and Veil no longer in danger of being sundered anew, they will take the box to Josephine. They will share the stories with Leliana. Together, with their spymaster and ambassador, the Inquisitor will try to bring peace to the dead they carry in this small, but stately box. But for now, all they can do is keep their words safe. And never forget that their work is far from being done


	15. Anders: The Cat

Varric was telling a story in bombastic tones while sweeping his arms in front of him, and Anders, for his part, had long since lost track of the tale. Footsore and weary from their latest trek along the Wounded Coast, he was more interested in staying upright and berating his own lack of foresight than listening to whatever yarn the dwarf was spinning. It would severe him right if he stumbled and made an ass of himself in front of everyone. Having woefully miscalculated the amount of lyrium he’d need, he was just shy of tipping over into a mana imbalance induced sickness. Hawke had tossed him two bottles as the group made it’s way back to Kirkwall, but it had come with the admission they were the last bottles available to him. Thus, Anders only downed half a bottle, just enough to slack off the upset of his mana, in case they ran into more trouble on the road back to the city. 

The lyrium had washed through him like a cool sea breeze and staving off the onset of any sickness that might be brewing in him. However, it didn’t cure the too tight in his own body crawling irritation he felt, or the queasy roll of his stomach, or the hemmed in, buzzing skin “don’t touch me” sensation that made him hang back from rest of the group. The only good thing about being this worn was that Justice had settled drowsily down and was no longer prodding him about his feelings regarding Hawke or reciting more reasons mages should be: Free. Right. Now. 

Of course, sharing your body with a Fade spirit also had the distinct disadvantage of make mana imbalance that much worse. Which was why the laughter ahead of him made him wince. Even Hawke’s normally pleasant chortle stabbed him between his eyes, but at least Varric seemed to have stopped rattling on for the moment. 

“You okay back there, Blondie?” the dwarf tossed a look over his shoulder at Anders.

He flexed his fingers along the smooth grip of his staff as he resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, “I’m fine.”

Hawke looked at him, head tipped slightly to the side, and a single brow arched questioningly up. Anders sighed and shook his head. Their fearless leader gave him a scant nod and then clapped Varric on the back, “Come on, we’re almost to the city gate and I’m sure all of us could use a hot meal and a bath after this morning.”

Anders blew out a slow breath as Varric threw narrow-eyed glance between him and Hawke before picking his pace back up. The dwarf would needle him later, on that count Anders was sure, but right now he couldn’t rouse enough emotion to care. 

Skin still tingling and his unprovoked irritation still buzzing about him as though he was an over ripe buffet for the entire local fly population, Anders fought the urge to bolt the second they crossed into Kirkwall. 

Breathe, he took in a deep pull of air and let it out in a slow stream. 

The press of the mid-morning market crowds had him gripping his staff with white knuckles and moving reluctantly closer to the Hawke and the rest of their group. He took in another long breath, wishing he’d had the presence of mind to down the last of lyrium once they’d been in sight of the gates.

For their part, Hawke seemed determined to cut quickly through the crowds. They even blessedly choose to detour down a few of Hightown's quieter alleyways despite the fact that it would take them longer for them to reach the manor. 

Anders barely noticed Fenris slink off down a different side lane until he heard Varric call after the elf and remind him he’d promised to come play Wicked Grace later that evening. He could have taken his own leave at that point, but cutting through Hawke’s blessedly quiet and empty cellars was by far the most pleasant option available to him at this point. That was if they ever made it there.

Varric had once again slowed, talking to Hawke about something or other. Anders press his eye shut, drawing in a sharp breath this time and puffing his cheeks out on the exhale as he gave more of his weight over to his staff. Hawke flicked a look back at him and grimaced apologetically. Anders shook his head and rolled his eyes. He could wait, it wasn’t like he had anything pressing waiting for him back at the clinic. At least he hoped he didn’t. He hoped Alewyn would have remembered to have runners waiting for him at the gate if anything needed his immediate attention or that she should go to go to Selby if she ran into any non-life threatening trouble. He was too exhausted to meet another disaster at this point. Still, as the moments wore on the itch to move, to put himself as far away from the people and buildings that surround him, was beginning to override his sense of decorum.

And the dwarf was still talking.

Anders huffed, leaning his head against his staff and rolling his brow back and forth over the soft leather strapping. He took in some more deep breaths.

Something brushed lightly against his leg, leaning into the ridges of his straps. He stilled, restraining his initial instinct to kick first and ask questions later and reminding himself that this Hightown, not the rat infested warren that was the under-city. Peering down at his feet, he bit back the squeaked of delight that nearly squawk forth from his dry throat.

There, winding back and forth over his boots, was the fluffiest cat he’d ever seen. It’s gray splotched white fur was long and mane like around its neck. The cat’s tail curled around Anders leg in poofy line. Slowly, he slid to a tight crouch and dangled his fingers from his knee.

The cat peeked its mossy green eyes up at him, sniffing at his fingers as it made another pass over his boots. Anders held his breath as it turned back around and this time leaned into his outstretched fingers.

This time Anders was sure he squeaked as the cat’s rumbling purr vibrated through him. 

Maker, how long had it been? Four, no three years since he had to give up Pounce? Had it been that long, he mused as his fingers sought out the feline’s favorite spots. 

The cat leaned harder into his hand, catching the underside of its chin on his fingertips and scraping them down along its jaw. He felt his lips curl up at the corners and he leaned his staff against the alley wall so that he could devote his full attention to his new friend.

Cats like this were rare in Darktown. Most of the ones he’d caught fleeting glimpse of were wary of people and none that he’d managed to coat over to him for a brief pat had such a luxuriously thick and long coat. He’d bet his last two silver that the beautiful creature before him belonged to one of the petty, entitled nobles of Hightown. 

“They probably don’t deserve you, too,” he cooed as the cat set its toe-feathered, thickly furred paws on his knees and rubbed his face against his. “Trumped up self-serving nobles never do, now do they pet.”

He felt as though his face would break with grinning when the cat trilled a soft chirping meow.

“I think this is Lady Matsen’s cat,” Hawke’s voice snapped Anders focus away from the fluffy ball of fur trying to climb into his lap. They had crouched down across from him, hands resting lightly on their knees. “The male I think. Mother said the female had kittens just last week so I doubt it’s her.”

“Kittens?” Anders almost choked on the word shifting his stance till he was acceptable lap to recline in. “I’m sorry, but did you say kittens?”

Hawke grinned, “I can ask if they’re all spoken for, if you’d like.”

Anders swallowed, “I… well…that is, what about…the clinic is not exactly…”

If anything, his fumbling made Hawke’s grin wider, “Cedric will be fine. Bethany used to keep cats, so I wouldn’t worry about him. And mother won’t mind either. I’m actually surprised she hasn’t come home with one herself, honestly. She doted on them as much as Bethany ever did.” They paused, smile gentling into something less sunstruck and beaming as the cat in Anders lap finally gave their patient fingers a sniff before arching its head up for a scratch, “So should I ask?“ 

Anders pressed his eyes closed again and found his sight was filmed over with a watery haze, "Sweet maker, Hawke, yes.”


End file.
